


push and pull

by carissima



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016 - 2017 season, Canon Compliant, Edmonton Oilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 04:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carissima/pseuds/carissima
Summary: “I’ll beat you next time,” Connor promises, throwing his arm around Leon’s shoulders because they’re on the ice and there’s no boundaries out here.“You can try,” Leon counters easily, shifting a little until they fit together more comfortably side by side. “Someone’s gotta keep pushing The Next One and make sure you don’t get lazy.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to bee for being my super beta

Connor is pretty sure there isn’t a single emotion he hasn’t felt on the ice at some point in his life. Usually it’s the positive emotions that he associates with hockey, like fun and belonging and satisfaction. He’s no stranger to being pissed as fuck on the ice though – fucking Cianfrone and his broken hand that made international news – or embarrassment, for that matter. But the negative feelings never last long enough to matter.

He’s named captain in the preseason. There’s an added measure of pride in his stature when he takes to the ice that always comes when he wears the C for his team. When he scores twice in his first game as captain, something settles between his shoulders and he’s not ashamed to admit that the first feeling that hits him is relief. Being named the youngest captain in NHL history is just another burden he tries to shoulder lightly, but fuck, Crosby and Toews have lit their teams up. Trying to blaze his own way in the wake of their shadows makes him feel anxious when he thinks about it, so he mostly tries not to.

He doesn’t embarrass himself or the team as the season starts, and with every passing game it’s easier to stand in the locker room and feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on him, their expectations of him both heavy and unwelcome. It’s easier on the ice. He doesn’t have to think twice when he scores, or assists on someone else’s goals, he just opens his arms and crashes into the nearest available body. He doesn’t have to control the exhilaration or elation that scoring brings, and he’s almost never embarrassed later on when he sees replays of the game because everyone else on the ice has identical looks mirrored on their faces too.

He fits in on the ice and he always has. Off ice, he’s still too quiet and too serious, and most of his teammates still regard him with vague reserve when they’re not dressed in Oiler orange.

So when Leon slides into the seat next to him when he’s halfway through his usual pregame meal of vegetables, rice and chicken before their game against the Blackhawks, Connor looks up in surprise, his fork suspended halfway between his food and his mouth.

“Um, hi?” Connor ventures. He likes Leon, and not just because he’s one of the few players in the locker room who doesn’t treat Connor any differently to anyone else in the room.

“Blackhawks,” is all Leon says. Connor waits, but apparently that’s all he wants to say. Puzzled, he drops his fork back down and clears his throat.

“Their second line is dangerous but they’re not invincible,” Connor says. He knows they can beat them, or any team for that matter. He knows they’ve got a chance this year that he doesn’t intend to pass up.

A ghost of a smile appears on Leon’s face. “Yeah, I know.”

Connor picks up his fork and stabs a piece of chicken because he feels awkward. He’s not sure why Leon sat down next him but he doesn’t want to say anything to make Leon leave, either.

“Panarin’s had a good start to the season,” Leon says casually.

Connor’s head snaps up. Leon’s watching him with a quiet intensity that he’s gotten used to over the past two years, but today he finds it unsettling. “I guess,” he says slowly.

Leon sits back in his chair and this time, his smile is wider. Connor blinks stupidly at him and Leon laughs softly. “Finish your chicken, Davo. We’ve got a game to win.”

Connor obediently takes another mouthful, chewing slowly as he watches Leon watching him. Neither of them say anything else, but Connor’s smiling to himself by the time he’s cleared his plate and they walk back to the locker room together, their elbows brushing every few steps and it’s nice, Connor thinks. He could get used to this.

*

They shut the Blackhawks out. Connor’s floating when he reaches Cam and tips his head forward until their helmets meet.

“You shut out the fucking Blackhawks!” he yells over the noise of the crowd.

“Hell yeah,” Cam yells back. “They’re not gonna beat us this year!”

Connor pats his arm before turning to skate back down the line, murmuring congratulatory words to each player until he steps off the ice and heads down the tunnel, feeling better than he has in ages.

Connor’s almost done with his cool down when Leon walks past him, looking relaxed with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“Good game tonight,” Leon says over his shoulder.

“Hey, wait up,” Connor calls, ending his session quickly and stepping off the bike with legs that ache in the best way after a good win. Leon’s waiting by the door and Connor jogs to catch up. “You played good tonight.”

“Wasn’t gonna let them win,” Leon says easily. “It’s not their year.”

“Yeah?” Connor says with a grin. “Whose year is it then?”

Leon just cocks an eyebrow at him before Connor finds himself being shoved into the wall. He bursts out laughing as he stumbles before he finds his balance again. “Don’t fucking jinx it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Connor says, in utter sincerity.

Leon looks amused. “I know.”

They shower and change in silence, and Connor waits for Leon before they head out to their cars together.

“So earlier,” Connor says awkwardly. His shoulders hunch up a little like they always do when he’s uncomfortable and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “About Panarin.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time watching you, this year and last.” Connor glances over, brows coming together in a frown, but Leon’s looking ahead, his stride loose and relaxed. “You’re playing different this year.”

“Better, I hope,” Connor says lightly. He’s been working hard on all the weaker parts of his game and he thinks he’s starting to get results.

“If you want an ego boost, turn on TSN,” is Leon’s dry reply. “There’s something driving you. You think no one’s noticed?”

Connor’s step falters. “Obviously I want to make the playoffs this year,” he says. “We all do.”

Leon sighs and comes to a stop by his car. “I’m not talking about the normal stuff that drives us. I’m talking about … It’s got to be hard, right? All that expectation?”

“I can handle it,” Connor says gruffly, squaring his shoulders out of habit. He’s been handling it for years and he thinks he’s been doing okay at it, at least.

“Of course you can,” Leon says dismissively. “Like I said, I’ve been watching you. We all know what you can do. What you’re going to do. It’s like there’s a plan mapped out for your whole career already, and you just have to keep following it.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps quiet. He hates the idea, personally. He’s always hated it. He’s never wanted to follow Gretzky or Crosby or anyone else. He just wants to be Connor, and play hockey and win whenever he can. He doesn’t think that makes him any different to any other professional in the sport, no matter what anyone else thinks about his ability or whatever.

“Except last year wasn’t in the plan,” Leon says quietly. He’s got his own hands in his pockets, mirroring Connor’s stance and looking him square in the eye so that Connor can’t look away even when he desperately wants to. “You’re better than fucking Panarin, Davo. That trophy should have been yours.”

“It’s not mine though,” Connor mumbles as his chest tightens.

Leon doesn’t speak, and the silence grows between them until Connor can’t bear it anymore and looks away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Leon says finally, and Connor feels the faintest touch of a hand on his arm before Leon steps away, leaving Connor to watch him climb into his car and pull away slowly, his arm lifted in a half-wave.

Connor waits until the tail-lights disappear before he walks over to his own car and climbs in, taking a deep breath before he starts the engine.

*

Connor sleeps well because his body is too well-trained to do anything else, especially after a hard game. But when he wakes up, he thinks about what Leon said. He thinks about it while he showers and while he eats breakfast. He mulls it over on the drive into morning skate and it’s still playing on his mind when he steps into the locker room. It’s mostly empty, since he insists on setting a good example by arriving early even for optional skates, but most of his teammates have drifted in by the time he’s ready to hit the ice.

He’s only skated a few laps of the rink when Leon falls into an easy step next to him with a brief nod. It’s another change to his routine, but he doesn’t mind the company even when it slowly evolves into a race, both of them throwing elbows to get ahead and yelling at the rest of the team to get out of their way. He’s vaguely aware of some good-natured chirping as everyone on the ice calls out their bets for the winner and he can feel his cheeks start to flush with exertion and exhilaration. He’s not even holding back and he’s only a step ahead of Leon, right up until Nuge skates in front of him, grinning with his arms open wide. Connor tries to slow down immediately but he still barrels into him, both of them tumbling to the ice in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

“Blatant interference!” Nursey yells, waving his hands. “All bets are off!”

Hands reach down to help him up and Connor finds himself face-to-face with a grinning Leon. “Beat you,” he says, his hand flicking over Connor’s elbow to brush off some loose ice.

“I’ll beat you next time,” Connor promises, throwing his arm around Leon’s shoulders because they’re on the ice and there’s no boundaries out here.

“You can try,” Leon counters easily, shifting a little until they fit together more comfortably side by side. “Someone’s gotta keep pushing The Next One and make sure you don’t get lazy.”

“And that’s you, huh?” Connor teases. This, he knows. This feels like he’s back in Erie, laughing at Dylan and just being two kids on the ice again. He feels open and happy and he wonders if this is going to be a permanent change to his routine. Wonders if Leon will let Connor fold into him, crowd into his space and tease him or compete with him until they’re breathless from laughter or exertion.

“It’s a tough job, but I’m up to the task,” Leon murmurs as the coaches step out onto the ice and the real hard work starts.

Connor pushes himself as hard as he always does, but every now and again he looks up and catches Leon’s gaze. Leon never smiles, not when there’s serious work to be done anyway, but Connor ducks his head and grins down into his jersey anyway.

*

Leon joins him for his pregame meal against the Avalanche, and then it becomes a thing. Leon gives Connor an outlet for his strategizing before a game, listening quietly until Connor eventually runs out of steam. And Connor knows he’s actually listening because their on-ice game improves incrementally until Connor feels like he knows Leon’s movements and shot choices as well as he knows Dylan’s.

It takes him a few weeks to adjust before he casually invites Leon back to his apartment after practice. They’re five minutes into playing NHL 17 before Connor realizes that Leon’s competitive nature isn’t restricted to the ice, and soon they’re chirping each other and trying to shove each other off the couch. When Connor gets a face full of cushion, he bursts into giggles that he can’t contain, even when Leon’s team scores on his.

“Asshole,” he says cheerfully, shoving the cushion behind him and putting his feet up on the coffee table.

“Just giving you a valuable life lesson, Davo,” Leon says smugly as his team runs down the clock and wins the game. “Most people don’t play fair on the ice.”

Connor raises an eyebrow. “I get my fair share of cross-checks.”

“You get everyone’s share of cross-checks,” Leon says with a roll of his eyes.

“Only if they catch me,” Connor says, tongue firmly in cheek.

Leon smacks him in the face with another cushion. “I don’t know, seems easy enough to me.”

“Hey! Stop hitting me!”

*

Connor knows he’s too worked up to be doing post-game interviews and yet here he is, answering questions he shouldn’t be answering and giving the beat reporters click-bait responses. But he’s still steaming mad, frustration and hurt and the memories of last year flooding through his mind and for once, he doesn’t care.

It feels like forever before he can put an end to the questions and drop into his stall, his head falling into his hands.

Someone pats him on the head, someone else taps his arm. He knows he should look up and acknowledge his team, thank them for what they did on the ice for him tonight, but he’s just so fucking tired. He feels like he’s done a whole game’s worth of double-shifting and all he wants to do is crawl into bed and forget Manning, forget tonight and forget the months he missed, the months that cost him the fucking Calder.

“C’mon, Davo.”

He sighs and stands up. Let’s Leon drag him through his usual post-game routine and walks with him towards the team bus. Leon shoves him into a window seat and sits down next to him. He shoves his earbuds in and leaves Connor alone to stare out of the window as they make their way back to the airport.

Leon manhandles him onto the plane, into his seat (window again), and then off the plane when they reach Minnesota.

“Manning’s an asshole,” Leon finally says when they’re in Connor’s hotel room and Connor’s spread-eagled on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly. “Don’t let him get in your head. He’s already fucked up one season for you. Don’t let him fuck up this one too.”

“We should have beat them,” Connor says angrily. He’s more annoyed by the loss than anything else, he thinks. “I hate that they won.”

“Next time,” Leon says, and it sounds like a promise.

Connor sighs and fruitlessly tries to force the tension out of his body.

“You know what would really annoy the fuck out of Manning,” Leon says casually, still propped against the wall with his hands in his pockets, looking so effortlessly calm and relaxed that Connor kind of hates him for a moment. “And Panarin. And every other person in this league who tries to get in your way.”

“… no?” Connor says after a pause.

“Winning the Art Ross in your second year in the league.” Leon’s looking at him like he’s an idiot and Connor doesn’t have much of a defense right now. He feels fucking dumb. “You’re leading the league right now.”

“It’s only December,” Connor points out and tries his best to pretend like winning the Art Ross doesn’t make his mouth salivate and his heart race. “There’s a long way to go before the end of the season.”

“Yeah,” Leon agrees, standing up and digging in his pockets for a minute before he extracts his own room key. “You’re right. You probably won’t win it.”

Connor bolts upright and glares at him, while Leon just meets his stare without expression.

“That shit doesn’t work on me,” Connor says, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

“Okay,” Leon shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter though if you’re not even going to try to win it though.”

Then he just turns and leaves, letting the door slowly shut behind him.

“You’re an asshole,” Connor calls out anyway. He’s just not sure which one of them he’s talking to.

*

They’re midway through January and Leon hasn’t let up on his quest to drive Connor up the fucking wall about the Art Ross. He’s constantly texting Connor updates on the top five, as if Connor doesn’t have those figures memorized.

This morning, he’d walked into the locker room to find Leon already dressed and ready to hit the ice. Connor’s usually one of the first to arrive and he’s not used to seeing Leon there so early, let alone ready to skate.

“Running late, Davo,” Leon says, pausing by Connor’s stall on his way out. “Bet Panarin is never late.”

Connor takes a breath and his lips twist. “I’m not actually late, you know. You’re just really early.”

“Sure, Connor,” Leon says, leaning in and lowering his voice. It’s unnecessary because they’re the only ones in the room, but Connor shivers and turns his head so they’re right in each other’s space. He doesn’t know why he does it and he has even less of an idea why Leon does it. It feels weird to be so close when they’re not on the ice, close enough that he can feel Leon’s breath on his cheek and can see the rise and fall of his chest, even under all his padding. He holds his breath and waits. “Get out on the ice, yeah? We’ll see who’s fastest today.”

Connor knows he’s a competitive bastard. No one gets to the NHL without being driven and aggressive. The problem, he thinks as he pounds the treadmill, is that Leon is possibly just as competitive as he is and he knows exactly which buttons to press to get Connor riled up.

“You’ve got no chance,” Connor murmurs. He knows he can beat Leon on almost any day, and he’s pretty sure Leon knows it too. But he likes that Leon challenges him and pushes him. God, he really fucking likes it. “I’m gonna crush you.”

He feels Leon’s huff of laughter against his skin before Leon straightens up. He’s still looking relaxed, but Connor knows him well enough now. He knows Leon’s itching to get on the ice as badly as Connor is.

“Promises, Davo,” Leon says and he starts moving towards the door, still somehow looking fucking effortlessly cool as he sways on his blades. “Always full of promises. When are you gonna deliver, huh?”

Connor sucks in a breath and feels the punch of hurt deep in his belly.

He gets dressed in record time and practically runs out to the rink. Leon’s doing lazy, elegant laps but Connor knows he’s keeping an eye on the door.

“That was a shitty thing to say,” Connor calls over. He’s not on the ice yet, hurt still rolling through his body.

“Did it piss you off?” Leon calls back and skates to a halt in centre ice.

Connor steps out onto the rink but he hangs by the boards, unsure for the first time exactly where his equilibrium is. “Yeah, it did.”

“Sorry,” Leon says, not looking apologetic in the slightest. He looks like he’s smirking, and all Connor wants to do is wipe the expression off his face. “I didn’t think you’d care, since you’re not bothered about the Art Ross or the Calder or leading this team to the Stanley Cup finals.”

“Fuck you,” Connor says angrily, finally pushing away from the boards and heading straight for Leon. “I never said I wasn’t bothered.”

“Say you want it then,” Leon says, skating backwards and keeping his gaze locked on Connor. “Say you want the fucking trophy, Connor.”

“I want the trophy,” Connor yells. It echoes weirdly in the empty space around them but he doesn’t care. “Are you happy now?”

“Not yet but we’re getting there,” Leon says, slowing down until Connor catches him and they’re toe-to-toe on the ice. “Stop being Mr Nice Guy all the time, Davo. It’s okay to want things and it’s okay to fucking say it, once in awhile.”

Connor feels his anger dissipate as quickly as it rose and he just feels strangely empty. “Not always,” he says flatly, glancing away from Leon’s searching gaze. “Sometimes it’s not okay.”

“When you win the Art Ross,” Leon starts, rolling his eyes when Connor makes a squeaky noise of protest about tempting fate, “you’re gonna tell me every single thing that Connor Mc-fucking-David wants in life. Every single thing.”

Not everything, Connor thinks. He’s pretty good at keeping secrets.

“You wanted to see who was fastest, eh?” Connor says instead.

“I think I’ve got a decent chance,” Leon says modestly, but his face lights up with challenge.

“Gonna have to catch me then,” Connor calls, his legs already moving as he gathers speed, shifting into a lower stance and throwing his weight forward.

He can hear Leon’s yell behind him and he knows he’s not far behind. “Hey, thought you said it was easy to catch me, huh?”

“Not when you cheat,” Leon yells.

“I’m just learning all your valuable life lessons,” Connor calls over his shoulder as he leans to the left to curve around the rink. “No one fights fair on the ice, right?”

Connor sees Leon cut across the ice and he shifts, flinging his arms out to catch Leon and spin them around on the ice a few times before they collide with the boards.

“You’re finally getting it,” Leon says, breathing hard as he shoves Connor away and grins at him. “There’s hope for you yet, Connor.”

*

Patty likes to call them the lovebirds and sometimes he makes kissy faces at them. Connor supposes they deserve it, considering they spend a lot of their off-ice time together. And Leon doesn’t seem to mind, he still slings his arm over the back of Connor’s chair when they’re out and he doesn’t shift out of Connor’s space. If anything, he moves a little closer and cocks an eyebrow at Patty, who just laughs at them. Leon is always Connor’s first choice for company when he’s bored or feeling a little homesick or he wants to just hang out with someone. Nursey comes with them a lot, so really Connor doesn’t understand why Patty only chirps him and Leon. He’s too afraid of the answer to ask, if he’s being honest.

Leon isn’t particularly cuddly, like Mitch is, or effusive with his friendship, like Dylan. They always manage to sit together when they’re out, their legs pressed together under the table, but that’s about as touchy-feely as they get. There’s always plenty of space between them on the sofa when they’re hanging out and a hand on the shoulder when they say goodbye is as close as they get.

So the fact that Connor thinks he’s beautiful and sometimes thinks about kissing him is completely irrelevant.

*

Connor knows he’s won the Art Ross before they hit the ice for the last game of the season. Barring any crazy scoring with multiple hat tricks, he’s pretty confident that he’s going to be at the top of the points table.

He’s more nervous about hitting 100.

Leon’s been strangely quiet about it since it became an actual possibility. Leon hasn’t stopped pushing and challenging Connor all season, so it’s weird that he hasn’t mentioned it even once. He’s even started to worry that Leon doesn’t think he can do it and that’s why he’s staying silent.

He’s going to do it though. He knows he is. Almost everyone in the locker room had wished him good luck during the day and he knows they’ll do everything they can to help him because that’s the kind of team they have here. The win is more important, obviously, but Connor wants those 100 points and he’s not ashamed to admit it to himself, now.

Leon gets an assist on Ebs’ first goal and Connor gets an assist on Drake’s. He’s one point away and there’s still a period to go but he feels a bit sick with nerves and want. Leon needs another point at least to get into the top 10 and Connor wants it for him almost as much as he wants his own point.

When it happens, it’s like a fucking movie script. He’s racing down the ice and when he looks up, the only person he’s looking for is Leon. He’s open and Connor shoots the puck over and watches as Leon sinks it in the net. His arms come up and Connor’s skating straight for Leon, crashing into him and they’re both yelling. The rest of the guys surround them and Connor is just so fucking relieved. Ending the season on 99 points would have been frustrating as hell, but he’s got his 100 points and he’s pretty sure Leon’s done enough to slide into the top 10 too. As he skates towards their teammates, Leon’s arms wrap around him from behind and Connor leans into him, laughing as they glide together.

“You fucking did it,” Leon tells him when they’re back on the bench. His hand drops to Connor’s knee and squeezes hard. “Knew you could fucking do it.”

Connor leans into him for a second, letting Leon take his weight just for a moment before he’s reaching for a Gatorade and wondering if they can get on the scoreboard again tonight.

*

The team goes out to celebrate the win, Connor’s trophy, Leon’s points, Ebs’ hat trick and the fact that they’re finally, finally in the playoffs again. Connor nurses his second beer as he circulates through the team, congratulating everyone and thanking them for getting them this far. He’s terrible at accepting their congratulations in return, but everyone’s used to him by now so no one takes it personally. Finally though, he winds up next to Leon and it’s easy to sling his arm around Leon’s waist and fit himself into the space Leon leaves for him.

“Is it my turn now, captain?” Leon leans down so Connor can hear him over the noise, his hand resting on Connor’s hip. His lips brush over Connor’s jaw and he can’t help the shudder that runs through his body. He just hopes that Leon’s had enough to drink that he doesn’t notice. “Gonna give me the Connor McDavid Pre-Playoff speech you’ve been repeating to everyone all night?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Connor says, amused. “You got something else you want me to tell you instead of telling you how fucking amazing you’ve been this year?”

Leon’s cheeks pinken, even if he doesn’t give any other indication that Connor’s words have had an effect on him. “Yeah, actually. That long list of things Connor McDavid wants in life, starting with the Art fucking Ross.”

“Love, long life and happiness?” Connor tries with a grin.

“Lame, Davo, very lame,” Leon murmurs, his hand tightening around Connor’s hip and making him gasp. His gaze drops helplessly to Leon’s mouth and oh fuck. He’s so fucking fucked. He watches weakly as Leon’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips before he swallows, Connor’s eyes tracking the movement of his throat. “Tell me what you want.”

Connor shakes his head slowly, his brain foggy and Christ, it’s hot in the club suddenly. “I can’t,” he whispers.

Leon shifts until he’s crowding into Connor’s space, forcing him to tip his head back so he can see Leon. “Yes,” he says fiercely. “Yes, you fucking can, Connor. You can have anything you want, you just have to say it.”

Connor’s mouth tightens and he shakes his head again.

Leon makes an annoyed sound before his hand lands on the small of Connor’s back and he finds himself being propelled through the crowded club. The cold Edmonton air is still a shock, even in April but Connor doesn’t get time to adjust before he’s being pushed into a cab, Leon sliding in next to him as he gives the driver his address.

Connor keeps quiet and stares out of the window, unseeing. Then he’s being hustled out of the cab and up to Leon’s place. When the door closes behind them, Connor heads for the kitchen and pours two glasses of water. He’s hardly drunk but he’s an athlete first and foremost.

Leon takes his and downs it quickly before he moves into Connor’s space again, giving him no time to move or even breathe. He’s pinned against the counter and his heart is racing.

“Leon.”

“Ask for what you want,” Leon murmurs, his tone soft this time. Almost pleading.

“This is crazy,” Connor says but he lifts his hands and carefully, so fucking carefully places them on Leon’s chest. Testing. “Fucking insane.”

“Nothing’s impossible for you,” Leon tells him. “Nothing.”

“Yeah?” Connor slides his hands up towards Leon’s shoulders, watching him carefully. Waiting for Leon to pull away. When he doesn’t, Connor lets his hands link together behind Leon’s neck and tugs gently until Leon’s lips are inches away from his and he still hasn’t pulled away.

“Ask,” Leon breathes.

Connor has never been so terrified in his life. “I want you,” he says shakily.

Leon kisses him.

Connor’s never kissed anyone taller than him before. He’s never kissed anyone broader than him either. Leon makes him feel small and god, Connor likes it so much. His fingers glide up into Leon’s carefully styled hair and he opens his mouth and feels the slide of Leon’s tongue against his. Leon’s hands have slipped under his shirt and they’re slowly moving against his skin and Connor feels feverish.

When Leon starts unbuttoning Connor’s shirt, he reaches down to help until he shrugs out of it. They’ve seen each other stripped bare a million times but he’s never seen Leon look at him like this before, with dark intensity and naked want. Leon’s hands skim up his torso, his thumbs raking over his nipples and making Connor gasp as arousal sparks under his skin.

Leon blows him right there in the kitchen, swallowing him down until Connor’s arching against the counter, his legs spread while he watches Leon’s slick mouth wrapped around his dick, sliding back and forth. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Congrats on your 100 points,” Leon says, still on his knees looking utterly debauched while Connor tries to catch his breath.

“This is so bad for your knees,” Connor finally says, which earns him a genuine laugh from Leon. He helps him to his feet, kisses him until Leon’s panting as hard as Connor is and guides him towards Leon’s bedroom so he can return the favour.

“You’re so hot,” Connor groans into Leon’s mouth before he kisses his way down Leon’s body, his hands coaxing and learning every inch of his skin as he goes. He doesn’t have Leon’s finesse, but he’s enthusiastic and Leon seems to appreciate it if the sounds he makes are anything to go by.

Hours later, after they’ve showered and exchanged lazy handjobs and showered again, Connor curls up into Leon’s side, his hand flat on Leon’s belly. Leon’s drawing idle patterns against Connor’s back and Connor knows he should go to sleep because playoffs start in a few days but he doesn’t want the day to end. It’s soppy and dumb but Connor really, really doesn’t care.

*

He wakes up to the smell of coffee and burned toast. The bed is still warm and Connor takes a moment to stretch out his muscles before he pads out into the kitchen in his boxers. Leon’s wearing an old Raiders shirt that’s so thin it stretches over his shoulders, threatening to tear at any moment.

“Morning,” Connor greets him, his voice still croaky with sleep.

Leon turns to lean against the counter, a smile playing on his lips. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” The coffee machine is next to Leon, so Connor tries to feign casualness and joins him at the counter to pour a cup. He doesn’t jerk away when Leon’s hand brushes over the waistband of his boxers, his thumb dipping under the material.

“Alright?” Leon murmurs.

Connor knows he’s got a dorky grin on his face but he can’t help it. He won the fucking Art Ross yesterday and got laid by his crush. He’s feeling fucking awesome.

So he leans in for a kiss that quickly devolves into shameless grinding against each other.

“Bed,” Connor gasps as Leon sucks what promises to be an obnoxious hickey onto his chest.

“Bed,” Leon agrees gruffly.

They make it as far as the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://lovedyouless.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/carissimas)


End file.
